


(will not) Change Me

by fandomlver



Series: Powers 'Verse [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: AU, But still fun I hope, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-20 03:25:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4771664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomlver/pseuds/fandomlver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And I hear them saying you'll never change things</i>
  <br/>
  <i>And no matter what you do it's still the same thing</i>
  <br/>
  <i>But it's not the world that I am changing</i>
  <br/>
  <i>I do this so this world will know</i>
  <br/>
  <i>That it will not change me</i>
</p><p> </p><p>In the next universe over, things are just slightly different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've left my beloved present tense behind to write in the Powers! 'Verse.  
> The boys have swapped Abilities around. Some people have different Abilities; some have the same. This is a fairly quick look at what might happen, because [censored] [censored] and a thimble. Ok? :D

“I’m looking for Athos!”

Athos looked up, sorting through the rush of feelings. “You’ve found him.”

“Prepare to fight, one of us dies here.”

Athos frowned, pulling off his jerkin and passing it to Aramis. “The boy’s grieving and furious,” he murmured. “You may need to step in.” Aramis nodded, drifting towards Porthos to pass on the warning, and Athos stepped out into the yard. “Can I ask why?” he asked politely.

“You murdered my father.”

The wash of grief prompted him to lock his mind down. “You’re mistaken. I’m not the man you’re looking for.”

“Murderer!” the boy spat, charging at him.

He was skilled, and he wouldn’t back down. Athos could have stopped him, but not without hurting him; he was glad when the others stepped in, though it took Madame Bonacieux to finally make the boy stop. Seeing that he’d given up – at least for now – Athos carefully lowered his walls enough to get a sense of him.

Grief, pain, guilt. And under that, honour and bravery and a determination to do right. Athos started to speak and then paused, glancing towards the gate. Treville, coming fast and worried about something.

“I am not the man you’re looking for,” he told the boy, making it as sincere as possible.

Doubt coloured the answer. “Then why did my father name you before he died?”

“I don’t know.” He turned as Treville came in; two Red Guards waited at the gate.

“Athos, I'm sorry. These men have come to arrest you. You're to appear before the King immediately, charged with robbery and murder.” He glanced at Aramis and Porthos, both with hands on hilts. “I promised them there'd be no trouble.”

Athos nodded, knowing without looking the other two were withdrawing, and followed the Red Guards.

 

Athos could sense them coming. They were almost there. Looking to save him.

“Shoot, damn you!”

“Hold your fire!” Aramis called from the top of the stairs. Brandishing a paper at the head guard, he came down the stairs to join Athos. “Such a hurry to die,” he said softly.

“Thought I’d shaken you two off,” Athos muttered as Porthos joined them.

“There are easier ways,” Porthos said chidingly.

The guard grudgingly unlocked his manacles. Athos sighed as the stress on his walls fell away; Porthos gripped his arm, watching until he nodded.

The boy was waiting uncertainly at the base of the stairs. Athos glanced at Aramis, who murmured “He helped us save you.” Athos nodded, studying the boy; the fierce anger had faded, grief was growing in its’ place, but there was happiness there as well. He was glad Athos had been saved.

Athos nodded as he passed him. Astonishment and pride welled up; Athos had to look away, steadying himself against the railing as he climbed the stairs.

The boy followed behind him.

 

Alcohol made it harder to keep his walls up, but it also made everything he sensed melt together so that he couldn’t pick anything particular out.

“This isn’t a solution, you know,” Porthos murmured, supporting him back towards his rooms.

“It looks like one if you don’t examine it too closely,” Athos answered.

Porthos scowled, letting him drop onto the bed. “Wrists,” he ordered. Athos held them out meekly, watching Porthos run gentle fingers over the abrasions left behind by the manacles. Under his touch the red, inflamed skin healed, returning to normal.

“Thank you,” Athos murmured.

“I’m not doing anything about the hangover.”

“You never do,” he agreed, lying back. “Are you staying?”

“Not tonight.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “You get anything from Aramis?”

“Nothing unusual.” He propped himself on one elbow, watching Porthos. “Was there something?”

“Not sure, but we found Cornet and his guys dead in the snow, in the woods.”

“Ah.” Athos lay back again, both hands pressed to his forehead. “Do you want me to come?”

“He went to Adele’s. He might not even be home tonight, and if he is I’ll be waiting. Maybe tomorrow you should see what you can see, though.”

“I will,” Athos agreed.

Porthos stood, heading for the door. “Good night, Athos.”

“Good night, Porthos.”

 

d'Artagnan watched until he was absolutely sure Vadim was dead. The others waited patiently, but Aramis was there when he pushed to his feet. "Are you hurt, d'Artagnan?"

"Bumps and bruises," he said as calmly as he could. "Nothing serious."

"There's blood in your hair."

"Just a scratch. It's already closed."

"May I?" Aramis was already reaching for his head.

d'Artagnan caught his wrist; Aramis backed off and d'Artagnan let go. "I'd like to clean up first." A rest, he just needed long enough for the worst of the injuries to fade before they saw them. "I'll meet you at the garrison, you can look to your heart's content."

Porthos' arm descended on his shoulders from behind. "You're coming to the garrison, lad. You're still a wanted man."

"Treville's working on it," Aramis assured him. "But the garrison's the safest place for you right now."

Porthos squeezed his shoulder, letting go. "You can clean up there. Don't blame you, wanting to get the stink of that place off you."

Aramis sighed. "Don't wash your hair," he ordered. "You might wash dirt into the wound."

"I promise," d'Artagnan agreed, relieved. He could make that work.

Aramis glanced at Athos, who hadn't spoken yet. "Athos?"

"Mmm." Athos studied d'Artagnan intently. d'Artagnan lowered his gaze. He hated that look; it felt like Athos was looking into his soul.

"I'm sorry we asked this of you," Athos said abruptly. "It was too much, and it turns out the king was never in danger anyway."

"I'm glad I could help," d'Artagnan said honestly.

Athos nodded. "Come on. Back to the garrison."

 

They arranged to have the bath set up in an empty barracks room and left d'Artagnan alone to clean up. He washed and then allowed himself to doze on the bed; Aramis would put it down to the heat and relaxation, he hoped.

He woke up to Porthos’ hand on his arm, though. Porthos was frowning, but he smiled when he realised d'Artagnan was awake. “Brought you something to eat. Aramis is on his way. How’re you feeling?”

d'Artagnan ran a quick mental check. Not fully healed, but enough, he thought. “Better. Thank you.” Porthos raised an eyebrow. “For agreeing I could clean up.”

Porthos shrugged. “Glad you’re feeling better. Sit up, Aramis’ll go easier on you if he thinks you’re eating.”

d'Artagnan obeyed. He flinched a little when Porthos offered him mutton stew. Porthos didn’t ask, though, just took a couple of mouthfuls and offered it again. d'Artagnan accepted it with muffled thanks and was steadily working through it when Aramis arrived.

“You look better,” he said cheerfully, dropping a bag onto the end of the bed. “Rather more colour in your cheeks. How do you feel?”

“Better.” d'Artagnan started to set the bowl aside.

“No, keep eating. Tell me where you’re hurt.”

“He can’t do both, Aramis,” Porthos pointed out. “He’s obviously not badly hurt. Let him eat first.”

Aramis shrugged, sitting back. “Treville hasn’t returned yet, but he’s expected any time.”

d'Artagnan nodded, pushing the bowl aside. “I’m done, thank you, Porthos.”

“Good,” Aramis said lightly. “Tell me where you’re hurt.”

“I hit my head.” He couldn’t get out of that one, Aramis had seen the blood. “It bled a lot but it closed up pretty fast. He tied me up for a while.” He held out his wrists.

Aramis studied them carefully. “These are from today. You were lucky. The Chatelet guards aren’t usually so considerate.” d'Artagnan smiled tightly and Aramis said briskly “I’ll wash them, but there’s no danger. Lean forward, please.”

d'Artagnan obeyed, feeling gentle fingers comb through his hair. “Ow,” he said obligingly when Aramis hit the right spot.

“You seem to have been lucky here as well. Lean forward a moment. Porthos, pass me that.”

Water trickled through d'Artagnan’s hair. Aramis’ fingers followed, cleaning out blood and dirt. Porthos pressed gently against d'Artagnan’s shoulder, urging him to lean further forward so the water dripped onto the floor.

“How close were you to the explosion?” Aramis asked, making one last pass.

“It knocked me off my feet,” d'Artagnan admitted. “But it didn’t hurt me.” It had at the time – badly – but as the most serious injury, it had healed first.

“Tunic up, please.”

d'Artagnan obliged, sitting patiently while Aramis tested ribs and spine and looked for bruising. “Lucky all around, aren’t you,” he murmured.

“I might not say ‘lucky’,” d'Artagnan muttered.

Aramis smiled faintly, sitting back. “No. Get some rest. By tomorrow this will all be sorted out.”

d'Artagnan followed Porthos’ push to lie back down. “I wonder if I still have lodgings,” he murmured.

“Why wouldn’t you?” Porthos asked.

“Bonacieux doesn’t like me much.”

“We’ll take care of that,” Aramis promised. “Get some rest.”

d'Artagnan was tired, now, the fight and the tension of the last few days, the heat and healing and the care he’d received all working together to drain his energy. He was aware, mostly, of Aramis carefully washing his wrists, drying them off and leaving them bare.

Porthos was talking, something about _ribs_ and _changed_. d'Artagnan couldn’t bring himself to focus on it, drifting into sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know I'm skipping episodes, they weren't going to change in any major way.

The house was screaming.

It had been shouting since he’d returned, drowning everything else out. Traces of Thomas, fainter traces of their parents. Once or twice a flash of Katherine; poor Katherine, who he’d treated so shamefully.

And Anne. Anne was everywhere, teasing, taunting him. Her tree loomed over the grounds, taller every time he looked at it; her flowers grew everywhere, filling the air with their scent until he couldn’t avoid breathing it in. He could see her in the corner of his eye, flitting from room to room, just ahead of him, staying just out of reach.

He should have gone to the others. He knew that. They’d have helped him ignore these ghosts, kept him rooted in the present. But Porthos was injured, and Aramis was occupied with him. And d'Artagnan, for all his loyalty and Porthos’ suspicions, was out of the question. Athos could confess neither the memories nor the Ability that made them so overwhelming.

At least Bonnaire seemed to be mostly behaving himself. Athos had been shamefully neglecting that, too, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave yet. He sent the others back to Paris and went to look for Remi.

He could almost see Anne standing over Remi’s body, the sense of her was so strong. He fled back to the house and the alcohol he knew was still there. This was the wrong way to deal with this, he knew it even as he was doing it. Porthos would be angry and Aramis disappointed when they realised. Even knowing that, though, he couldn’t stop himself. Bottle in hand, he went to their marriage bed and let himself fall.

The smell of smoke roused him only because he didn’t remember it; it didn’t belong in the memories he was trying so desperately to relive. He surfaced slowly, reluctantly, blinking dazedly through the haze of smoke. He couldn’t see any flames, but they couldn’t be far; the air was hot.

Anne walked past the door.

He almost ignored her, because she couldn’t really be here, but he could smell the torch she was carrying and the smoke was certainly real.

He absorbed little of her words and less of her emotions, overwhelmed by her sheer presence. He’d barely realised she was gone when d'Artagnan was there, dragging at him, forcing him up. A beam crashed down nearby, showering d'Artagnan in splinters and sparks; Athos, on his other side, was spared entirely.

d'Artagnan dragged him outside, forced him to drink a little and clean up. d'Artagnan listened while he babbled words he knew didn’t make any sense, fragments of sentences, half formed explanations. When he finally ran out of words, d'Artagnan set up a bed roll and all but manhandled him into it. Athos let himself be moved, drinking in the simple concern and protectiveness radiating from the boy.

When he woke in the predawn gloom d'Artagnan was sitting cross legged next to him, wiping his leathers with a cloth. “They’ll still smell of smoke,” he said apologetically. “But it’s a bit better now. Your saddlebag’s there if you want to change.”

“Good morning,” Athos said, vaguely bemused. d'Artagnan looked calm, but he was trying very hard not to think about something, focusing on banal tasks.

d'Artagnan smiled ruefully. “Sorry. How are you feeling?”

Athos shook his head, sitting up. “What did I say last night?”

“Nothing that made much sense,” d'Artagnan said carefully.

“A brave attempt to spare my feelings, but misguided. What did I say?”

“I gather that your wife killed your brother. You ordered her execution, but she isn’t dead, and despite her best efforts neither are you.”

“My survival is entirely down to you.” Athos winced as another memory surfaced. “Are you injured? There was a beam…”

“No.” d'Artagnan turned his face to show unmarred skin. “It looked a lot closer than it was. Some sparks on my jerkin, that’s all.”

“Lucky,” Athos murmured. d'Artagnan nodded blandly, but a pulse of fear ran through him. “Have you slept?” Athos asked. Another pulse; he filed it away to puzzle over later.

“A little,” d'Artagnan answered. “A couple of hours, I think. You were restless. Not surprising,” he added. “It was enough. Did you want to change before we leave? I’ll get the horses ready.”

“d'Artagnan,” Athos said, and he paused where he’d risen to his feet. “Say nothing to the others of what happened here.”

d'Artagnan studied him for a moment before nodding. “As you wish.” He turned away again, disappearing around a corner of the smouldering house. Athos took one deep breath before turning to his saddlebag and digging for clean clothes.

 

Aramis pushed both himself and Marsac into the Black, holding him still as the soldiers passed by. Marsac stood passive, waiting for Aramis to shift them out again. They could converse there, if they had to, but it wore him out even more quickly than hiding two of them.

Aramis shoved him against a pillar as he let go; Marsac wisely stayed put. "What are you doing here?" Aramis demanded. "You're a deserter to the regiment, you'll be captured on sight."

"I found out." Marsac's eyes were unnervingly bright.

"Found out what?"

Marsac took a step away from the pillar, reaching for his arm. "I found out who attacked us, Aramis."

Aramis took a quick step back. Dealing with Marsac's voice was hard enough; if he got his hands on him, it'd be even harder. "Back," he said warningly.

Marsac stopped, staring at him. "Aramis, you don't think that I..."

"What is this?" d'Artagnan demanded from behind Aramis. He spun, explanations already on his lips.

"It's all right," Marsac said firmly. Aramis could _see_ it hitting d'Artagnan, see him sway slightly. "Everything's fine; nothing to worry about."

"Stop it," Aramis hissed. Marsac shrugged, taking a step back.

d'Artagnan shook his head, forcing his eyes back into focus. “What does –“

Aramis caught his arm, hustling him a couple of steps away. “Marsac is an old friend. He saved my life at Savoy. d'Artagnan, please. Say nothing, for now.” Porthos thought d'Artagnan had an Ability; Athos wasn’t sure yet, but thought it possible. Was it enough?

d'Artagnan studied him for a moment, eyes troubled. “If he does that again – me, anyone, I don’t care – I’m stopping him.”

“Understood,” Aramis agreed quickly. d'Artagnan hadn’t questioned it, hadn’t asked what had happened or how it had been done. Maybe he did have some experience with this.

He didn’t expect to be able to keep Marsac secret for long, Constance’s unexpected help aside, and he wasn’t surprised when the others found out. At least they both seemed willing to listen to Marsac’s evidence, even if they were rather less willing to believe it. Aramis didn’t blame them. He didn’t want to believe it himself.

Athos had been watching Marsac warily the whole time they were talking; when they were finished, Marsac relegated to Constance’s charge, he followed Aramis outside. “Do you know what he is?”

“He’s promised not to use it,” Aramis said tiredly.

“It’s dangerous.”

“He saved my life with it,” Aramis snapped. “He drove away Savoy’s soldiers until I could hide us. He told me he wouldn’t use it and I believe him. He’s never lied to me.”

Athos studied him for a moment before nodding. “Very well. I will trust your instincts. But remember that whatever else he did, he left you alone and injured in enemy territory surrounded by dead men. We will not forget that.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Aramis murmured, refusing to let himself think of it.

“Good.” Athos touched his shoulder awkwardly; he was terrible at physical contact, always had been, nature and Ability both working against him. It made it mean more when he tried. “We’re with you.”

“I know,” Aramis agreed. “I will remember.”

He should have expected Marsac to take things into his own hands; he wasn’t expecting the hit, Marsac had never so much as laid a hand on him before. It took him too long to recover, to realise what was happening and make his way to the garrison.

He should have hidden before stepping into the room. It was too late now; Marsac was watching him closely, and it wouldn’t work. “Put the gun down, Marsac.”

There was a buzzing in his ears; Marsac trying to influence him. Aramis couldn’t hear the words, but that wouldn’t stop them working. “Marsac!”

Marsac smiled, almost apologetic, and Aramis shot him.

Athos and the others appeared only a minute or two later. Aramis sat passive as Marsac’s body was gently lifted away from him, he followed when someone tugged on his arm, and he didn’t react when someone sat him down and took his gun and wiped the blood from his face. Porthos sat next to him, pressed together hip to knee, and took his hand, but there was nothing to Heal. He kept hold anyway.

“I think he wanted me to,” Aramis said abruptly.

“Marsac?” Porthos said after a moment.

“He was trying to – I don’t know what, I couldn’t hear. Make me do _something_. And – he smiled, when I shot him.”

“He was miserable,” Porthos said quietly. “We all saw. Only a shell of who he was once. I know that I wouldn’t want to live like that.” He was silent for a moment. “If he was trying to make you –“

“I believe I shot him of my own free will,” Aramis said quietly.

“Everyone always did think it was their own free will,” Porthos grumbled. “That’s what made him dangerous.”

“Whether he did it or not – I _believe_ it was me. The guilt is mine.”

“He wanted to die,” Porthos said firmly. “Athos sensed it, early on. We thought maybe, if we could get you your answers – it might be enough for him. But he wanted it too badly. Your gun or not, this was all him.”

Aramis shuddered, leaning against Porthos and beginning to pray softly. Porthos joined in, keeping vigil with him.

 

Porthos knelt beside Charon. “I can help you,” he said softly.

Charon laughed, a terrible wet sound. “So I can hang later? No thanks.” His hand found Porthos’ arm and squeezed. “I’m getting out of here, one way or the other.”

Porthos knelt beside him until it was over – it only took a few seconds; Aramis’ aim was good – and then rose to his feet. Aramis was waiting down the corridor. Athos and d'Artagnan had vanished.

“I’m sorry,” Aramis started.

Porthos shook his head. “He walked onto your blade; I saw it. Not your fault. C’mon, I gotta get back to Flea, I left her bleeding.”

Aramis followed him back to Flea, who was sitting up and talking to d'Artagnan. “Athos went to get a cart,” d'Artagnan offered when Porthos asked. “We need to move the gunpowder out of here before someone sets it off by accident.”

And the grief would have been hard for him, Porthos mentally filled in. of course d'Artagnan had no idea about that part of it.

“d'Artagnan, you should go and report to Treville,” Aramis said briskly. “You’ll probably meet Athos along the way, you can come back in with him.”

d'Artagnan glanced between them, nodding. “All right. I’ll try and be as quick as I can.”

“Take your time,” Aramis said, ushering him towards the door. “I’ll just look at Flea here and then we’ll get to work securing that gunpowder.”

Porthos sat down beside Flea, carefully peeling off his gloves. He didn’t touch her until d'Artagnan was gone, though; sure as he was about the boy, he couldn’t risk it yet.

“Keeping secrets?” Flea asked, watching him.

“It’s too early yet.” The injury wasn’t severe, but she’d have had trouble with it if he hadn’t stepped in. “Musketeer’s best shield is secrecy and we aren’t sure enough of him yet. Soon.”

“You’re sure.”

“One voice in a crowd. Now shush, unless you want to end up with a scar.”

Flea snorted – she knew how his Ability worked just as well as he did – but she shushed, letting him work. Aramis was waiting when he finished, pressing a cup of fairly indifferent beer into his hands.

Flea tested the arm, rotating it carefully and rubbing it. “Nice work. Thanks.”

“Yeah, well, one of us learned something while I was gone.”

She grinned, standing. “One of us remembers, too. Food? I’ll be right back.”

Porthos sighed, leaning against a nearby support beam. Aramis settled beside him, watching.

“M’all right,” he murmured. “It wasn’t that serious.”

“No,” Aramis murmured softly, and the way he said it made it clear he meant the exact opposite. “No, it wasn’t.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skip, skip, skip - you get extra this week because next week ran long. Enjoy!

Athos almost turned around and left. He could sense LaBarge, self-satisfied and gleeful, but apart from a fading trace on a pillar where he must have paused, there was no sign of d'Artagnan at all. Maybe he’d gone back to Constance.

He almost turned around and left, but he decided, since he was here anyway, he’d check on LaBarge. He wanted d'Artagnan’s justice, and LaBarge had to live to trial for that to happen.

The sheer pleasure when LaBarge saw him almost knocked him off his feet. “Been wondering when another of you lot would show up. Are you going to last longer than the last one?” He waved to the corner behind Athos.

Athos kept an eye on LaBarge, but the man seemed content to sit and watch as he knelt beside d'Artagnan. He pressed two fingers against the boy’s throat, hoping against hope, praying to Aramis’ God he was wrong…

Nothing. d'Artagnan was cool and still and his eyes had clouded over.

“Did him a favour,” LaBarge said, stretching out on his bunk again. “He’d never have made it as a Musketeer.”

Athos was tempted to stop and fight him, but he wanted to get d'Artagnan out of there more, and if he stayed here much longer his walls would fail. He lifted the bod – the _boy_ \- without too much difficulty, carrying him out.

He didn’t remember getting past the guards or crossing the city; he didn’t remember anything until Porthos was staring at him. Athos held out his arms mutely; Porthos took d'Artagnan, but he didn’t even look at him, stepping back to make room for Athos. Aramis’ rooms, Athos realised hazily; he knew their rooms as well as his own, and they were careful about new belongings to keep from bothering him. He must have followed the sense of them here without knowing it.

Aramis was at his side, leading him to a chair, mouth moving as though talking though no sound was getting through the buzzing in Athos’ ears. Apparently realising this, Aramis gave up, pressing a cup into his hand. When Athos only stared Aramis lifted his hands to his mouth. Athos drank automatically.

Porthos was sitting beside him the next time he looked up, one hand on his arm. “M…” He stopped, cleared his throat, and tried again. “I’m not hurt.”

“You’re not injured,” Porthos agreed, so calmly that Athos didn’t realise he’d changed the meaning for several minutes.

Eventually he shifted, looking around. Aramis’ sitting room, empty but for them. “Where’s…”

“Bedroom,” Porthos supplied. “Aramis is praying. Too late for last rites, but…” He shrugged. “Can’t hurt, I suppose.”

Athos, who’d had little faith as a boy and lost whatever he’d had left five years before, only nodded noncommittally. “Can we go in?”

“Yeah.” Porthos stood, waiting for him, following him into the bedroom. 

Aramis had closed d'Artagnan’s eyes and cleaned him up a little; he might have been sleeping, now. Athos found himself sitting on the edge of the bed without any memory of crossing the floor.

Aramis’ prayers went on. “Ad te suspriamus, gementes et flentes in hac lacrimarum valle…” Athos tuned it out. d'Artagnan’s hands were folded neatly across his chest; Athos reached carefully to touch one, just the lightest touch, barely enough to register.

Something flitted across his mind and was gone.

Athos frowned, letting his hand cover d'Artagnan’s. There…faint as anything he’d ever felt, but completely unmistakeable. “Aramis,” he breathed. “He’s alive.”

Aramis’ prayers trailed off; Athos wasn’t looking at him, but the sudden spike of worry was clear. “Athos,” he said quietly, “he’s cold.”

“Yes,” Athos agreed. “And alive.”

“Porthos agrees…”

“We’re wrong. Listen to me, listen, what did Porthos say about him? Self healing, yes? _We don’t know how far that goes._ ”

“We don’t even know Porthos is right,” Aramis pointed out. Leaning forward, he cupped a hand over d'Artagnan’s nose and mouth.

After a long moment, far longer than he needed, he shook his head, sitting back. “There’s nothing, Athos.”

“He’s _alive_ ,” Athos insisted. “I can _feel_ him.”

“A trace, maybe, on his clothes, or –“

d'Artagnan dragged in a breath, choking on it, jerking halfway off the bed. Athos and Aramis were both frozen for a moment before they darted to help him, mostly getting in each other’s way. d'Artagnan ended up braced against Athos’ shoulder, breaths heaving in and out, shuddering with the force of them.

Aramis shouted for Porthos; d'Artagnan flinched away and almost went over again, and this time Athos couldn’t move. Aramis steadied him; d'Artagnan groaned, trying to pull away, but he was still far too shaky, limbs not yet working properly.

Fear was pounding in Athos’ head, doubling when Porthos appeared; knowing what it would do, he raised his voice anyway. “Porthos, _stop_.” Porthos hesitated, halting a couple of steps away. “Aramis, let go,” Athos continued, and Aramis made sure they were steady and then backed up.

“d'Artagnan,” Athos murmured. The fear pounded again and then receded, just slightly. “You’re safe; I promise. Listen to me. You’re safe with us. Do you understand?”

d'Artagnan shuddered all over and then went still. “Athos,” he mumbled.

“Yes.”

“Where’s – how –“

“We’re in Aramis’ rooms,” he said quietly. By the door, Aramis murmured something to Porthos and vanished into the other room. “I brought you here from the Bastille.”

“Bastille,” d'Artagnan said thoughtfully, and then went so rigid Athos thought for one horrified second he was having a seizure.

Porthos knelt beside them, tugging Athos’ hand away and replacing it with his own; d'Artagnan didn’t seem to notice the substitution, but Porthos shook his head a moment later. Nothing wrong he could detect.

“d'Artagnan,” Athos started.

d'Artagnan scrambled out of his arms, pressing his back against the wall; he looked like nothing so much as a hunted animal. “I’ll leave,” he said, so quickly Athos had difficulty making out the words. “I’ll leave the Musketeers, I’ll leave Paris – only, please, don’t report me. Please, I swear, I’ve done no harm.”

Fear and panic pounded against Athos’ walls, threatening to overwhelm him; Porthos must have read it in his body language, because he spoke up. “d'Artagnan, relax. We’re not gonna report you.”

d'Artagnan watched him, suspicion and longing warring in him. “I’ve never done any harm. I couldn’t if I wanted to, it’s Passive. It only affects me.”

“I believe you,” Porthos agreed. “Self Healing, right?”

“Yeah.” His gaze flicked to Athos and back. “I should’ve known I couldn’t hide it here.”

Athos could tell Porthos badly wanted to reassure him, but the Requirement bound him. “Listen,” he said instead, “I grew up in the Court of Miracles. Abilities don’t worry me. And Athos and Aramis, they don’t care either. You’re safe with us. Believe me, if you’re ever believed anything I said.”

Tension drained out of d'Artagnan and the hope grew stronger. “Thank you,” he said, sliding down the wall just a little. “I’m – normally I can hide the injuries until they heal, but this time…”

“You were slightly hampered by an unfortunate case of being dead,” Aramis said from the doorway. d'Artagnan tensed and then relaxed again; Aramis came in, offering him a cup. d'Artagnan took it with barely noticeable hesitation and swallowed the contents.

“Wine,” Aramis said to Athos’ look, “and an herb I would normally give someone recovering from illness, to help build strength back up. I don’t suppose you’ll need it for long,” he added to d'Artagnan.

“No,” d'Artagnan agreed. “Death’s a bit more serious than usual, but I’ll be fine in a couple of hours.”

“Couple of hours?” Porthos repeated. “How long’s it normally take?”

Instinctual panic, quickly smothered. “I heal in my sleep,” d'Artagnan told him. “The smaller the injury, the quicker it heals. I’ve never been hurt longer than about twelve hours.”

“Handy for a soldier,” Aramis said briskly. “Do you need more sleep now?”

“It will help,” d'Artagnan agreed, still just a touch wary.

“If you’d rather go home, one of us will walk you.”

That did it; d'Artagnan believed they wouldn’t turn him in, at least today. Athos let go of the sense of him with a smothered sigh of relief.

“No. Thank you. I mean – if I’m not in the way.”

Aramis smiled. “No. I think we’ll manage to work around you.” He gestured vaguely towards the other room. “Call us, if you need anything.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Porthos’ hand on his shoulder would look friendly, Athos knew. d'Artagnan would probably not figure out that it was also holding him up. They shuffled into the other room; Porthos helped him to a chair and Aramis produced the brandy he kept for ‘medical emergencies’.

“I’m all right,” Athos said finally.

“Of course you are,” Aramis agreed. He was mending a strap on his jerkin, sewing just as neatly as he would have with skin.

“How’s the lad?” Porthos asked, tipping his head towards the bedroom.

“I stopped…he was very afraid. But he believes now that we won’t turn him in.”

Aramis glanced up. “The priests of the Gasconge are perhaps overzealous in their efforts to root out Abilities. And Passive Abilities, by and large, are harder to hide than Active.”

“Yes,” Athos agreed. The fear had tasted old and well worn, almost comforting in its’ familiarity.

“Well, we’re just gonna have to show him he doesn’t have to be afraid here, aren’t we,” Porthos said. “Do you want to go home? Aramis doesn’t need me here.”

“Of course, leave me to handle the scared Gascon,” Aramis agreed without looking up from his stitching. “I expect pretty poetry at my funeral.”

“And a line of weeping women at least half a mile long,” Porthos promised. “Let’s go, Athos.”

A night in his own rooms, with Porthos nearby, had Athos back to normal, or as close to normal as he ever got. Aramis and d'Artagnan were already at the garrison when Athos reached it; the boy glanced up, paled, and rose to his feet.

“You’re safe here,” Athos said automatically. That old, well known fear was running through d'Artagnan, but he was trying to ignore it.

“Yes. Can you come with me?”

“Where?”

d'Artagnan glanced up at Treville’s door.

Aramis was watching with a frown. “You’re not trying to leave again, are you?”

“No. This isn’t that. But I need to speak with him.” To Athos, he added, “You don’t have to,” but the longing coloured every word.

Athos gestured to the steps. d'Artagnan grinned, bright and brilliant, and headed up.

In Treville’s office he planted his feet, squared his shoulders and proclaimed “I have an Ability.”

Treville glanced at Athos, who closed the door.

“Are you making a confession, son? You’d be better off in the Cardinal’s office.”

“Not a confession, sir. Just making sure my commanding officer has a full understanding of everything I can do.” Treville made a ‘go ahead’ gesture and he continued “I’m a Self Healer, sir. When I sleep, any damage done to my body heals. I don’t get sick, I don’t retain injuries and I can’t die.”

“Can’t die?”

“No,” d'Artagnan corrects himself, “I _can_ die, but I don’t stay dead. I’ll revive.”

“Always?”

“I don’t test it, sir. Twice so far.” He shifted just a little. “If you want, sir, I’ll leave the regiment. I’ll leave Paris. But I’ll swear on anything you put in front of me, I’ve never harmed anyone and wouldn’t if I could. It’s Passive and it only affects me.”

Treville met Athos’ eyes briefly. “Shame. It’d be handy to have another Healer around the garrison. Might make things easier for ours.”

d'Artagnan got it very quickly; he sucked in a breath, turning on Athos. “You?”

Athos tipped his head. “All of us.”

“All – the whole regiment?”

“We’re Kings’ guards. We don’t use our Abilities openly – not unless it’s life or death, and if we can’t get to you afterwards it might be. You never speak about it with anyone; you don’t speak about it with us unless you have to.”

Treville stood, catching d'Artagnan’s attention again. “You need the King’s commission, still, but as far as I’m concerned you’re a Musketeer, d'Artagnan, and I’ll tell him so at the earliest opportunity.”

d'Artagnan blinked. “The Requirement?”

“You’re required to come to me or another Musketeer and freely speak of your Ability. We need to know we can trust you and be trusted by you.”

“But what happens to recruits without Abilities?”

“They fail out along the way,” Athos told him. “We have ways of telling, though not with any kind of specificity, and we apply them only when we are already suspicious. You passed that test some time ago.”

“What? When?”

“Porthos suspected you after Vadim. He was certain you were injured in the tunnels, but by the time he got back to you here in the garrison you were all but healed.”

"I remember, I think," d'Artagnan mused. “How would – he didn’t examine me or anything.”

“You’ll have to wait for him to tell you about that,” Athos said briskly. “Come along; we’ve taken enough of Captain Treville’s time.”

d'Artagnan followed him downstairs, dropping to sit at the table. “How did it go?” Aramis asked, glancing from him to Athos.

“d'Artagnan lacks only the king’s commission to become a fully fledged Musketeer,” Athos told him. “He has passed the final Requirement.”

Porthos grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “Knew you’d do it sooner or later!”

“It might have been easier if I’d known certain facts,” d'Artagnan pointed out, mock indignant.

“Ah, it doesn’t count if we help.” Porthos shrugged. “Someone somewhere decided it’d be better that way.”

“It makes sense, I guess,” d'Artagnan agreed.

“This calls for a celebration, I think,” Aramis suggested.

“Not quite yet, the captain’s about to announce the Musketeer Champion,” Athos said, watching the stairs.

d'Artagnan grinned, climbing to his feet. “At some point you three are going to tell me everything.”

“Later.” Athos nudged him into line, waiting to hear Treville’s announcement.

 

“Aramis and I will take her majesty –“

“No,” d'Artagnan interrupted him. “I’ll go with Aramis.”

“d'Artagnan…”

“Better to have me in a fight than you,” he pointed out, careful with what he was saying; the queen was listening.

Athos glanced at Aramis, who nodded quickly. “We’ll keep her majesty safe until you return, Athos.”

Athos nodded reluctantly, nudging his horse to step alongside Aramis’ so the queen could shift across. “We will be as fast as we can. Hold on until we return.”

“We will,” Aramis promised. Athos nodded, spurring his horse away with Porthos behind him, and Aramis turned towards the convent.

The nuns were unhappy at first, but the Mother Superior quickly dispersed them, welcoming the queen and her two protectors. Aramis explained what was happening, as best as they knew it. “I’m afraid we may have brought trouble to your doors,” he said apologetically.

Mother Superior shook her head. “Her majesty is welcome here,” she said firmly. “If you’ll come with me, your majesty, I’ll find you something more comfortable to wear. Gentlemen, ask for anything you need.”

“Thank you,” Aramis said politely. “d'Artagnan, let’s find the best places to keep watch from.”

Aramis went out to meet the head of the assassins; d'Artagnan covered him from above, but he was too far away to hear anything. Queen Anne joined him, dressed in a nun’s habit, watching curiously what little she could see. d'Artagnan refused to let her too close to the window, well aware that the discussion could be a distraction.

Aramis returned a few minutes later and asked Mother Superior to call everyone together. “Where is your priest?” he asked, only seeming to realise then that the women were alone.

“Ministering,” she said shortly, gesturing towards the north. “A few hours from here.”

He nodded absently. “Gallagher has offered to allow you and the rest of the nuns to leave, and I believe he will honour that promise.”

“We can take her majesty with us.” She glanced towards Queen Anne; wearing the habit she looked exactly like the others. “She’ll go unnoticed in our midst.”

Aramis shook his head. “He’ll allow you to leave, but he’ll check to be sure her majesty is not with you. d'Artagnan and I will stay with her. Our friends will be back before the end of tomorrow. We have only to hold out that long.”

Mother Superior turned to the nuns, who’d been listening along. “Any of you who wish to leave,” she said clearly, “go now with my blessing.”

No one moved, and after a moment she turned back to Aramis. “It seems we are united. How can we help, monsieur?”

Aramis set them to preparing for a siege – checking food and water supplies, preparing bandages and other medical supplies, finding anything that might be useful in defense. d'Artagnan kept Queen Anne with him as he inspected the outer walls, looking for weak spots, blind spots, and look out points.

There were a couple of mild forays that day, little more than tests. d'Artagnan, Aramis and the nuns repelled them easily enough, and with only a couple of slight injuries to show for it. As night fell Mother Superior ordered the men to sleep, promising that her nuns would keep watch and wake them at once at the first sign of anything suspicious. Aramis was reluctant, but he agreed that they both needed some sleep, and he and d'Artagnan retreated to the room they’d been offered. Queen Anne was in the inner room, with a nun to attend on her, and after a quick check of the room Aramis left them alone.

“The others will be back tomorrow?” d'Artagnan asked, splashing his face.

“They will.” Aramis gripped his arm, pushing his sleeve aside to study a graze from flying stone chips. “This hasn’t healed.”

“I haven’t slept.”

“That’s all?”

“I don’t heal awake, Aramis. Cut like that, an hour’ll do it. Less, maybe.”

“Well, then, get some sleep. I’ll wake you in a while.”

d'Artagnan nodded, not bothering to point out that the nuns were already keeping watch. He settled onto one of the beds, falling asleep almost at once. Aramis propped himself near the outer door and waited patiently.

He was considering waking d'Artagnan to take the second half of the watch when the inner door creaked open and Queen Anne slipped out. Aramis glanced back in surprise, catching a momentary glimpse of the nun asleep in a chair before Queen Anne pulled the door closed again.

“Something wrong, your majesty?” he asked quietly.

Queen Anne glanced at d'Artagnan, still asleep on his cot. “Nothing wrong. I’m just restless. What’s going to happen?”

He half shrugged. “Hopefully, they haven’t realised that we split up, so they won’t be in any hurry. If we’re very lucky, they’ll settle in for a siege and the others can just take them from behind when they get here.”

“And if we’re not lucky?”

“If we’re not lucky, they know they’re running out of time, and they’ll throw everything they have at us tomorrow.”

“What are they likely to have?”

Aramis glanced at d'Artagnan, opened the outer door and drew the queen out into the hall. “Let’s not wake him if we don’t have to,” he murmured. “They’re not likely to have anything too heavy with them, your majesty, but ladders and battering rams are easy enough to make. They might have those ready as early as lunch time tomorrow, depending on when they started.”

The queen shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself. She was still in the habit but had taken off the wimple, and her loose hair made her look very young. “How do we fight those things?”

Aramis studied her for a moment before smiling. “Successfully, your majesty. The nuns have proven themselves very capable, and we have only to hold out until the others return; I expect them by tea time at the latest.”

Queen Anne shook her head. “Don’t baby me, Aramis. Please tell me what the techniques are; I will feel better if I know.”

Aramis considered for a long moment before nodding. “Very well, your majesty.”

He talked for a while, explaining the methods the attackers were likely to use and the ways they would counter each. Queen Anne listened carefully, asking questions here and there, and the information did seem to be calming her.

The door creaked open and d'Artagnan came out, fastening his shirt. “Aramis, what – forgive me, your majesty, I didn’t realise you were out here.”

Queen Anne smiled quickly. “I was restless. Aramis was kind enough to keep me company.”

d'Artagnan nodded, glancing at Aramis. “Want me to -?”

“Thank you,” Queen Anne said. “I think I can rest now.”

Aramis bowed. “You are most welcome, your majesty. Please don’t hesitate if you need anything else.”

She smiled, gathering the skirts of her habit and heading back into the room. d'Artagnan bowed as she passed him.

“Sorry,” he murmured when they were alone in the corridor. “Didn’t mean to interrupt, I didn’t know she was out here.”

“We were discussing defending the convent,” Aramis told him. “I think she feels better, knowing a little of what’s likely to happen. How’s your arm?”

d'Artagnan lifted his sleeve to show off smooth, unharmed skin. “Told you it would heal when I slept.” He hesitated for a moment. “Aramis, should – I thought this would probably be unpleasant for Athos, but I was only guessing. Was I right?”

“A protracted siege would certainly be difficult for him,” Aramis agreed. “One as short as this one will hopefully be would not be so bad, but you’re right that it’s easier for us.”

d'Artagnan nodded thoughtfully. “You should rest. Come on. Those cots are surprisingly comfortable.”

Aramis nodded, letting d'Artagnan steer him back inside. The queen’s door was cracked open, but there was no way to see inside. Aramis settled onto the cot and let himself drift off.

The fighting started around lunchtime the next day and never really stopped. Aramis took various scratches and cuts; d'Artagnan was unharmed, this time, but the fighting was unending and the attackers were getting inside. Aramis had Mother Superior show them into the cellars, into a room that could only be approached from one direction, and they set themselves for the final defence.

He’d stopped expecting Athos and Porthos to get there in time, and the volley of shots from behind their attackers took him by surprise. d'Artagnan took advantage of the distraction to snipe one of them with his last remaining bullet; Aramis was ready to take the last two, but Porthos got there ahead of him, taking them down and vaulting the hastily-built barricade to join them.

“Where’s Athos?” d'Artagnan demanded as soon as he saw him.

“He’s chasing after Gallagher. Your majesty,” he added, bowing briefly to Queen Anne before starting to distribute fresh ammunition to Aramis and d'Artagnan. “My apologies, Mother, but this is nearly over with now. You should have your convent back very soon.”

“Her majesty is safe, that’s worth a little damage,” she said stoutly.

“I will make sure you have the resources you need for your repairs,” Queen Anne promised.

Athos approached, shouting from the other end of the corridor to warn them. “Is her majesty safe?”

“She’s fine!” Aramis told him. “We’re fine too!”

Athos made a face at him, but he looked relieved to see them unhurt. Aramis stood, helping the queen to climb over the barricade; Athos steadied her on the other side, apparently completely unsurprised at her clothes.

“Well, considering there was six of us, we did all right, didn’t we?” Porthos said cheerfully.

“Six of you?” Aramis repeated, supporting Mother Superior.

“The regiment’s gone hunting with the king. Captain happened to be at the garrison, and we’ve got Serge, Jacques and Florian.”

“ _Blind_ Florian?” d'Artagnan protested.

“Half blind,” Porthos corrected him, grinning at the look on his face.

“Oh, half blind, well that’s completely different, isn’t it,” d'Artagnan muttered.

“Ey, we saved your arses. Begging your pardon, ladies.”

Aramis smiled, falling back to walk with Athos. “You seem to have had an interesting two days.”

“Less interesting than yours, I think.”

“Oh, ours? La Rochelle but from the other side. Nothing special.”

He’d been watching the queen without realising it; difficult to stop, after so long on guard. Athos ignored it, guiding the group up into the yard.

Mother Superior was standing near the gate, a small box in one hand. “Our assassin told me this would pay for the damages,” she said, offering it to Athos, “but I think he had something else in mind.”

Athos took the box without thinking and froze, struck by the familiarity. Aramis’ hand on his arm drew him back; Porthos took the box away, examining it loudly and narrating it to d'Artagnan, who nodded along without any idea what he was listening to.

“Mother Superior’s gone,” Aramis murmured. “It’s just us. Listen to me, Athos. It’s us, you know us.”

Athos nodded slowly, grounding himself on the familiar feelings. “Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Aramis told him. “Are you back?”

“Yes. Thank you.” He patted Aramis’ arm awkwardly. “Apologies. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Stop apologising and tell us what it is,” Porthos told him, tossing the box from hand to hand.

Athos twitched, restraining himself from reaching out for it. d'Artagnan caught the movement and lifted the box out of Porthos’ hands, cradling it safely against his chest.

“Open it,” Athos told him. d'Artagnan obeyed, flipping the lid up and turning it around to show him the embroidered flower inside. “That flower is the sign of a woman who works for the Cardinal – a woman you know, d'Artagnan.”

“A woman I…” d'Artagnan frowned.

“Who is she?” Porthos asked.

Athos reached out to flip the lid of the box closed. “She is my wife.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorrysorrysorry... ::hangs head in shame::

“I hate this plan,” Aramis said for the fourth time.

“We all hate the plan,” d'Artagnan agreed, “but it has to be done.”

“We should have found a different way.”

“Aramis, relax. She can hardly kill me.”

“She can expose you. All she has to do is mention your name to the Cardinal.”

“She wants me. She won’t expose me. We talked about this.”

“And I hated it then, too.”

Porthos appeared in the gateway, scowling. “Athos, he’s drunk and he’s got a woman hostage. He’s talking about killing her.”

“Showtime,” d'Artagnan muttered, following the others into the square.

He’d wanted Athos to injure him, to make their separation more plausible. Athos had pointed out that they couldn’t risk that when Milady would want to tend to him, and that ‘discovering’ the affair would be enough. d'Artagnan hadn’t been sure, but as they played out the scene he saw satisfaction on Milady’s face and knew it would work.

Athos shoved her aside, lunging to attack d'Artagnan. Porthos dragged him roughly out of the way while Aramis half-heartedly blocked Athos.

“You get out of here,” Porthos snapped at d'Artagnan. “He’ll kill you if he gets his hands on you.”

“Where am I supposed to go?” d'Artagnan protested.

“Not my problem. Just get gone and stay gone.” He shoved d'Artagnan back another couple of paces.

“I can’t just –“

“d'Artagnan,” Aramis snapped from where he was trying to keep Athos under control, “we can’t deal with both of you, and he needs us.”

d'Artagnan retreated a step or two. “Aramis…”

“ _Go away._ ”

d'Artagnan backed away a couple of steps, turned on his heel and stormed off.

Milady followed him.

They’d known she would. They were counting on it. d'Artagnan let her follow him for a couple of streets before pausing, rubbing his face wearily. “What do you want?”

“To help.” She stepped around in front of him, and despite himself lust coiled through him when he saw her properly. “No one else seems too eager.”

“He’s drunk.” It sounded weak, he knew. “He’ll calm down when he sobers.”

“Mmm, do you think so? I’m not so sure. You betrayed him –“

“I didn’t even know him then!”

“- and that’s not something he takes lightly.”

“Stand aside.” She didn’t move; he said carefully “Stand aside or I will kill you. Athos already hates me for sleeping with you, he might as well hate me for something that actually matters.”

She pouted, but she stepped aside. “Where are you going?”

“Are you worried? How sweet.”

“You don’t have anywhere to go, do you? Your pretty draper’s wife won’t take you in, and you can’t risk the garrison. Athos is probably lying in wait for you. Where are you going?”

d'Artagnan hesitated, fighting the impulse to check the shadows. Athos wasn’t lying in wait for him, he wasn’t following them to get his revenge, this was all part of the plan. Milady wasn’t going to make him doubt his friends.

He was tired suddenly, bone deep weariness so heavy he could barely think.

“You don’t have anywhere to go,” Milady said softly. “Come with me. My rooms aren’t far from here.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t owe you any more.” He hadn’t meant to say that. Why was he so tired?

“We’ll call this one free,” Milady says. “Since you’re likely to get yourself killed if I leave you out here. Come along.”

d'Artagnan followed her to clean, empty rooms, and managed to kick off his boots before he settled on the bed. He fell asleep straight away.

 

_It’s the plan._

He reminded himself over and over as Treville finished the speech – _the speech you planned, you knew this would happen, it means nothing_ – the speech that marked the end of his career in the Musketeers – _it’s not true! It’s not happening! You know this!_

Milady watched him from across the room. “Now do you see? He’ll never allow you to be happy. Not now that he knows.”

“I won’t…” d'Artagnan swallowed, hard, trying to remember the plan. “I won’t _murder_ my best friend.”

She murmured something he couldn’t hear properly, crossing the room to stand between his legs, pinning him in place. “You’re very loyal to him,” she said, one hand on his leg. “That’s a commendable trait, d'Artagnan. Loyalty is good. But only if you’re loyal to the right person, and Athos is not that person. Olivier de la Fere _will_ cast you aside if it suits him.” Taking his hand in hers, she gently tightened his fingers around her choker, pulling it loose. “Believe me, I know.”

d'Artagnan found he couldn’t look away from the scar. It was filling his vision, and she was still talking, something – he couldn’t focus…

He pushed her gently away, rising to his feet. 

“Where are you going?” she asked, watching him.

He answered without thought, the words sitting on the tip of his tongue. “I’m going to kill Athos.”

 

He didn’t remember walking to the garrison. He passed the Musketeers on guard without being challenged; Treville must not have made it public yet. _You’re not being removed_ , a small part of him insisted. _This is the plan._

That part was smothered by the rage curled like a living thing behind his eyes.

Porthos, and then Aramis, tried to intercept him in the yard. He ignored both of them, drawing his sword as he looked around. Athos had to be somewhere, they were waiting – waiting for…

_Waiting for you, because this is the plan, they’re not trying to get rid of you…_

Athos stepped out of the stable, Aramis shouted a warning, and d'Artagnan attacked, screaming.

It didn’t last long; they were in the garrison, after all. d'Artagnan was quickly smothered beneath a pile of bodies. Someone disarmed him; someone else held him while Aramis forced a liquid down his throat. d'Artagnan spewed most of it back out, but enough got into his system to make him lethargic, drowsy. He was moving, somewhere, people were talking over his head, but he couldn’t make much of it out.

He drifted for a few minutes, enough for his system to start getting rid of whatever herbs Aramis had given him. The voices were much clearer when he focused again; they were all standing over him, but no one seemed to be paying him much attention.

“…laid over his own like a blanket,” Athos was saying. “There’s no way he could have avoided it. Whoever this was…”

“Milady de Winter…” Aramis murmured.

“…they wound him up like a clockwork toy and sent him after me.”

“Milady de Winter,” Aramis said again, more clearly. “We know d'Artagnan was with her not an hour ago. Who else could have done this in that time?”

“Did you know she has an Ability?” Porthos asked. He was much closer to d'Artagnan, directly beside him. _Guarding you,_ the rage said, _trying to stop you, he’s on Athos’ side, get him!_

“We never spoke of it,” Athos said, with the stiff tone that usually meant he was hiding something.

“Did you send that boy in without warning him?” Aramis asked. _Angry, maybe he’s on your side, maybe he’s an ally…_

“I know nothing for certain.” Still stiff, still hiding. “Porthos, he’s awake.”

“He should be asleep for –“ Aramis caught himself. “ _Asleep_. I didn’t think of that. He’s healing, rejecting the herbs...”

d'Artagnan shoved himself upright, getting his back to a wall as soon as he could. He’d burned off most of the herbs but he was still moving too slowly, reflexes not what they should be.

“How’re you feeling?” Porthos asked, watching him without moving any closer.

d'Artagnan started to answer twice, biting it off each time.

“He’s fighting the rage,” Athos provided, “and it’s not going very well. The herbs are still affecting him or he’d have attacked again already.”

“Milady did this?” Aramis asked. d'Artagnan nodded, concentrating on _not_ launching off the bed at them.

Porthos’ hand wrapping around his neck very nearly sent him flying; Athos snapped a warning and Porthos let go, stepping back. “Nothing I can help with,” he said regretfully.

“Athos,” d'Artagnan said through gritted teeth, “go away.”

“What?”

“It’s easing, I can think a bit…go away and maybe it…” He cut himself off, reaching blindly for Porthos’ arm to ground himself as the rage _roared_ , blocking out everything else in his head. “Aramis,” he gasped when the wave of rage receded a little, “more – sleep, it’s helping, I’m healing, make…”

Porthos took a step away, pulling free of his grip. d'Artagnan protested wordlessly, trying to follow him; he threw himself straight into Porthos’ punch without even registering it, blacking out instantly.

 

He woke with Aramis watching over him.

“The door is locked, and they won’t open it until I tell them to,” Aramis said as soon as he moved.

“Good to know.” d'Artagnan pushed himself up to sit, folding forwards over his knees.

“How are you feeling?”

“Empty,” he said absently. The rage was gone, but he could still feel – he _wanted_ – “I should go.”

“Go where?”

He looked up, surprised. “To Milady.”

Aramis studied him. “We have time. Treville has put it about that you wounded Athos and we’re holding you here. When you’re ready you can ‘escape’. There’s no hurry.”

“Escape,” he muttered. “Yes. Where are my boots?”

“Not here. Why do you want to go back to her?”

“I don’t want to, I need to!” He cut himself off, pressing one hand against his eyes and reaching blindly for Aramis with the other. “I don’t want to,” he breathed. “Aramis, I don’t _want_ to.”

“You don’t have to. We can still call everything off.”

d'Artagnan shook his head without speaking.

“Why do you think you need to?” Aramis probed gently.

He folded over his knees again. “Because…she made a hole in me, and poured in all that rage, and it’s gone now but the hole, the hole’s still there, Aramis, and I know she can fill it back up, if I go back to her, she can…”

“She wants you to kill Athos.”

“I know! I know, she – I would have – it’s so _empty_ , Aramis.”

Aramis gripped his shoulder tightly. “Bear it a little longer, if you can. The rage eased. Maybe this will too.”

d'Artagnan nodded. “Did I hurt anyone?”

“No. You were too far gone. No technique. You didn’t even get to Athos, Porthos brought you down first.”

“Good. Good.” He was silent for a minute. “Did Athos know?”

“He says not.”

d'Artagnan looked up, catching Aramis’ tone. “I don’t think he’d have sent me in if he really knew, Aramis.”

“He knew _something_ ,” Aramis muttered.

“Aramis…”

“We can worry about it when you’re feeling better. Eat something? I have some here.”

d'Artagnan really didn’t want anything, but he ate anyway. Aramis nodded approvingly as he cleared his plate and drank some wine. “Good. That will help.”

“Is Athos here?”

“He’s in the garrison, yes,” Aramis said warily. “He can’t leave until we decide what’s happening with the plan.”

“Can I talk to him?” Aramis hesitated; d'Artagnan offered “You could tie me down.”

“No I couldn’t,” Aramis said automatically. “I’ll go and ask him to come, but Porthos and I will be here as well. Alright?”

“Alright,” d'Artagnan agreed. It wasn’t ideal – Athos would be less willing to talk with them here – but it would do. “Can you get him now, please?”

Aramis nodded. “Try and relax,” he said, standing. Hesitating, he added, “They won’t lock the door behind me, but you shouldn’t try to leave.”

“I know. I’ll just sit here.”

Aramis talked to someone on the other side of the door for a minute before letting himself out. d'Artagnan eased back to put his back to the wall, drawing up one knee and trying to relax. He was almost sure the rage was all gone, but if he saw Athos and it came back…

Porthos came in first, eyeing him. “How’re you doing, pup?”

“Not filled with murderous rage.”

He relaxed a little, smiling. “Always good to hear.”

“But – maybe – stick close just in case?”

“Course,” he agreed, perching on the end of the bed. He’d be able to reach d'Artagnan before he could even stand up.

Athos came in, Aramis on his heels. Athos didn’t seem worried at all and d'Artagnan relaxed as he realised what it meant. “It really is gone.”

“Yes,” Athos agreed. “It faded while you – slept.” He leaned against the wall by the window, watching him.

“How much did you know?” d'Artagnan asked, keeping his eyes locked on Athos.

“I knew that Anne has always been skilled at getting people to do her bidding. But I did not know she could control you like that. I swear it.”

“I believe you.” d'Artagnan let his head drop back to lean against the wall behind him.

“You won’t go back to her,” Athos said. “We’ll think of another way to get the Cardinal.”

“This is still the best plan,” d'Artagnan protested automatically, trying to tamp down the surge of terror at the thought of not going back to her.

Athos was frowning at him. “What is that?”

“I need to go back to her,” he admitted. “I _need_ to. She hid it under the rage, I think. It’s easing, but…much more slowly.”

“Could knock you out again,” Porthos offered.

He smiled despite himself. “That didn’t help last time. I don’t think it’s something that heals, not like an injury.”

“You can’t help?” Porthos asked Athos.

“I receive only. I have no influence over anyone else’s mind.”

“Maybe now that I know she can do it, it won’t be as effective,” d'Artagnan suggested, trying not to sound like he was grasping at straws.

“Maybe,” Athos agreed. “We shan’t worry about it tonight. You won’t go back to her before tomorrow at the earliest.”

“Yes, how _are_ you faring after I viciously attacked you?”

“Fighting for my life under Aramis’ expert care.” Athos held out his arms. “Don’t I look it?”

“What, weedy and under strength? Yeah, but what’s new there?” Porthos asked.

Athos threw a pillow at him.

 

Apparently convinced that her manipulation would work, Milady didn’t seem to have had a back up plan. The Cardinal gave her up, the Musketeers tracked her down, and Athos stepped out of hiding to face her.

“Did your revenge taste sweet?” he asked curiously.

“For a moment. And then something strange happened. The world seemed – diminished, without you.”

“How fortunate for you, then, that I am alive and well.”

d'Artagnan turned abruptly to Porthos, who raised one eyebrow, shrugged, and knocked him out.

Milady pouted.

Athos took a single step towards her. “Do not do that again.”

“It never bothered you before.”

“I did not know of it before. Now I do. And I know what it feels like. So never again, Anne.”

“Are you planning to keep me very close, then?” She reached out to toy with the laces of his jerkin.

“No.” He caught her wrists, holding them both in one hand. “I am not.”

“Oh, come on. It wasn’t all bad, was it?”

“You killed my brother, tried to kill me, attempted to kill the Queen and Ninon de Larroque, and those are only the things I know about.”

“ _We_ weren’t all bad.”

“It’s not going to work, Anne,” he said, almost gently. “You cannot make me feel for you as I once did. Those days are long gone.”

She studied him for a long moment; her face turned cold and hard, and she pulled free of his grip, taking a step back. “So what happens now? Execution?”

“No.”

“Of course not. The Cardinal would never allow it. I am far too useful to him.”

“The Cardinal has given you to us,” Aramis told her cheerfully. 

“Apparently your usefulness is at an end,” Porthos added. “Mind you, since the Queen knows what he’s done, he’s not so useful any more either.”

She smiled bitterly. “So what does happen now, Olivier?”

“You will be escorted out of the country,” Athos told her. “You may choose your destination, within reason, and you will be made comfortable on the journey. But you will leave this country, and the first time you return your life will be forfeit. Do you understand?”

“I’m feeling an odd impulse to defend her,” Aramis announced.

“ _Anne_!” Athos snapped. “Your journey can be made just as effectively with you unconscious!”

“How do you plan on making sure I reach my destination?” she asked curiously. “I did turn d'Artagnan against you, after all.”

“Shall I tell you my whole plan right now?” Athos shook his head. “Come with me.”

“Should have known I couldn’t trust that boy.”

“No one cares for your opinions, Anne.”

Porthos hoisted d'Artagnan over his shoulder. “I could knock her out, too,” he offered.

“Really? Hit a woman, Porthos du Vallon? I thought you were better than that,” Milady said with a disappointed sigh.

“Good enough to protect my brothers from you.”

“Don’t talk to her,” Athos told him. “If she speaks again, you may do as you see fit.”

Milady pulled a face, but she didn’t speak again.

 

d'Artagnan woke to find himself on his bed in the garrison. He reached automatically for his jaw, but the bruise was long gone and the slight stiffness eased as he moved.

“No bruises,” Constance said from the window. “You’re still as pretty as ever.”

“Constance,” he said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching over your sorry –“

“Sorry,” he said over her. “That was rude. I’m sorry.” He sat up, rubbing at his face. “Where are the others?”

“Athos is off on some escort mission. The others are up at the palace; the King has some kind of announcement for them.”

“And they called you in to sit with me? Why?”

She busied herself at his dresser, turning back after a minute with a cup of water. “I suppose I was the first person they thought of.”

“Really. After everything that happened, they thought of you.” His voice was cold; he couldn’t change it in time.

“No one else would put up with you,” she snapped. “Drink that so I can leave.”

“Does your husband know where you are?”

He was expecting anger, or for her to storm out. He wasn’t expecting her to – fold in on herself like that, suddenly looking small and vulnerable. “No. He doesn’t know. I didn’t tell him.”

“I’m sorry,” d'Artagnan said softly. “That was completely out of line. I’ll get Porthos to punch me when they get back.”

“Punch you myself, I don’t need Porthos to do it.”

“No. I don’t suppose you do.” He reached for her hand, tugging lightly to get her to look at him. “I am sorry. You’re doing me a favour here, I should be grateful.”

“I’m doing Athos a favour,” she said half heartedly.

“Well, either way. If you’re going to punch me, punch this side, will you?” He gestured to the side away from where Porthos had caught him. “I might as well be symmetrical.”

She laughed, just a little, and he smiled, relieved. “I wouldn’t dare leave a bruise.”

“I don’t bruise that easy.”

“I remember,” she agreed.

He was still holding her hand. He squeezed it lightly. “You didn’t want to, did you?”

“No,” she murmured.

“Has he hurt you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“I’m sorry, he said that –“

“Doesn’t matter. As long as you’re all right.”

She brushed his hair back, watching it rather than looking directly at him. “This isn’t a reunion, d'Artagnan. I’m not coming back to you.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to _come back to me_. I hope that sometime, maybe, you’ll allow me back into your life. In some capacity.”

She laughed softly. “You’ve been spending time with Aramis, haven’t you?”

“The man’s contagious. Next thing I’ll be comparing you to a plant of some kind.”

“Oh, well, I wouldn’t want you to say anything you didn’t mean.”

“I’d mean every word of it,” he said solemnly.

“Flatterer.” She took a couple of steps back, breaking contact with him. “Drink up. They should be back soon.”

“Thank you for looking after me.”

“Let’s try not to have it happen too often, hmm? It can’t be good for you.” She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, meeting his eyes long enough to smile before letting herself out.

d'Artagnan swallowed the water and stood, crossing to the window. After a minute Constance crossed the yard; she glanced up, but she couldn’t pick out his window and didn’t stop to try, just continued out. d'Artagnan leaned against the frame, watching the gate.

He was still there a little later when Captain Treville rode back in with Aramis and Porthos. Sighing, he pushed away and headed for the stairs to go and join his team.


End file.
